"skyhouse" poems
_“perhaps the sun is a teacup, spilled by a girl in a skyhouse who laughs in polka dots–”_
You wrote like someone
who had been listening
long before speaking,
each poem a hush,
each repost a gentle offering.
This space once held you,
your words, your calm curation,
a gentle steadiness
in a shifting field of voices.
take this small goodbye
not as an end,
but as a door left open,
just in case
you return with your light.
Until then,
may strength find you
in soft moments,
and peace arrive
never needing to be earned.
Jul 24, 2025
Jul 24, 2025 at 6:28 PM UTC
The essence of his sweet kiss lingers on my lips as would a cold winters breeze softly blowing through the sunlit autumn leaves. the memory of his arms so tight around my body, so familiar, so right. my soul searches for him at night, lost in my dreams, I see my elusive black fox. he plays a game of cat and mouse. little does he know he plays with the Shehawk, she who is wise, and watches him from the safety of her skyhouse. she knows he's dangerous but she is still curious, intrigued, drawn in. Who will win? What game are we playing? Black fox, why are we waiting?
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC